Missing
by Ashley A
Summary: Arthur reacts to Alecto's statements about Rome and Pelagius. Implied AL slash.


Author: Ashley

Title: Missing

Rated: PG13 for language and imagery.

Pairing: A/L

Disclaimer: movie versions.

Summary: A little AU scene inspired by the director's cut and the song "Missing" by Evanescece, which is pure genius. Arthur reacts to Alecto's comments on Rome and Pelagius.

The line from the 'story' Lancelot quotes is actually a line from "Salty Dog" by Sarah Brightman.

Feedback is welcomed.

This one is for me.

_Even though I'm the sacrifice,  
You won't try for me, not now.  
Though I'd die to know you love me,  
I'm all alone.  
Isn't someone missing me?_

_Evanescence, Missing_

Arthur turns the head of his horse, and rides toward the back of the line.

_The Rome you talk of doesn't exist. Except in your dreams._

"Pelagius! For you!"

"Well done, Artorius. You keep it. Deliver it to me when you come to Rome."

Arthur's vision gets spotty, and he has to rein in his stallion.

How long has it been since he spoke to Alecto? Minutes? Hours? He's not sure.

He watches as the struggling train of people passes by, and the snow continues to fall, coating him in a white blanket that feels warm compared to the ice of his skin.

He's the only one left, now.

Father, mother, gone.

Friend and mentor, gone.

Excommunicated and butchered for the simple ideal that men deserve to be equal.

Arthur has built his life around the memory of Rome, and it's golden principles that Pelagius had pounded into his ten year old skull.

Fighting for the church, for the principle, for God in His infinite wisdom.

To keep his men alive, and to see them safely home.

In one moment, everything he has existed for, everything he believes in, has been burned away like so much scrap on a camp fire.

He blinks once, twice.

The end of the train of people passes him by, and he knows somewhere inside that he should be following them, or actually leading, but he can't move.

The glorious, shining, lofty dreams of _home_ and _family_ drift away with the falling precipation that catches his eyes, making him snowblind.

A horse neighs, and his stallion answers, making him start and his surroundings come back into focus.

"What is it?"

The dark haired knight that is his closest friend and ally canters up to him, and reins in. Arthur knows he should tell someone, anyone, what he's just discovered, but he can't make his mouth move. He suddenly thinks that to admit outloud to being a fraud for so many long years would turn away the last semblance of family he has. He has to hold onto the tiny shred of relationship that graces him with its presence.

All the thoughts on free will, all the beliefs and standards and teachings Arthur has tried to impart upon his fellow knights and friends would mean nothing, would be nothing if what the boy has just told him is true.

And why would he lie? He's not getting anything out of it. Arthur shudders momentarily, the kind face of his mentor blending with those of every person he's ever killed in the name of a place that doesn't exist.

He merely shakes his head, and urges his horse into a walk, knowing the refugees would be alright with Tristan scouting ahead. Gawain and Galahad were at the front as well; he could barely see the top of Gawain's blond head.

"Arthur," Lancelot repeats, "what is it?"

"I- it's nothing," Arthur finally gets out after swallowing twice. "Are we close to the lake?"

Lancelot nods. "Two leagues perhaps. If we could move a bit faster…" but he trails off at the blank look on Arthur's face.

"Stop."

Arthur snaps his head over to Lancelot, and looks at him with a dogged expression that hurts to form.

It would hurt worse to show Lancelot his true face.

They both rein in their horses.

"Arthur, for pity's sake, talk to me. What's going on?"

And he wants to, he wants to so badly he can taste it. He remembers the early years suddenly, a blurred passage of time when the man now looking at him askance was not only his closest friend, but his lover and his only solace in a blood soaked existance.

What he doesn't remember is how they got to the point where they are now. Where they can barely be in the same room with each other for five minutes without arguing about something. About anything. Arthur doesn't remember when it stopped being good and became something…else. When it soured. Something he hadn't wanted for them, and his heart aches when he looks at Lancelot now, the finely arched eyebrows and bow shaped mouth drawn and pinched.

"What's become of us, Lancelot?" he whispers sharply, and at first he doesn't think the other man gets what he's saying. But then when the eyes narrow, and Lancelot's fingers grip his reins just a little too tightly, Arthur knows he understands.

"Do we have a few months to discuss this right now, Arthur?" he answers back just as quietly.

Arthur's hands twist themselves together in a flesh and blood replica of the knots he's so good at making in rope. He opens his mouth to say something, and whatever ideas or notions he's had fly away when the expression on Lancelot's face changes to one he never thought he'd see.

Pity.

God.

"Don't you dare," Arthur grits out, his teeth clenched instead of his hands, which have released themselves.

"Why not? Because I'm not the commander? Because I'm the one you lofty Romans should feel sorry for? I had no choice but to be here, Arthur. You did this for your ideals, for your God, for your Rome. And now that's all gone."

Arthur's mouth gapes. "How did you-"

"I heard the boy. We all did," Lancelot states plainly, the pity still echoing in his brown eyes, despite the pain that's taken the lead in its place.

"I had hoped you would tell me yourself. That you would come to me about it. Talk to me. Talk, Arthur. Something we used to do quite often, if you can remember back that far."

"Now is not the time-"

"Bah! When is the time? When we're all dead and buried and you're a husk of a man left alone – again?"

Lancelot's eyes flash with anger, and his shoulders tense to the point of breaking.

Arthur would normally have some kind of comeback for words like the ones his friend has spoken – but he's too brain numb to think of any.

And to be truthful…he doesn't want to argue. What he wants is to fall into the other man's arms, and allow himself to be comforted, to be reminded of the other reason Arthur gets up in the mornings.

He wants to be the way they were, before crushing years of battle and too many nights of intense emotion drove their way between himself and Lancelot.

His head hung, he keeps on riding. Lancelot breathes heavily at his side, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

At last he grabs at Arthur's reins, and pulls the stallion to a stop.

"We'll catch them up, don't worry," Lancelot says, following Arthur's gaze. "We're only a minute or two behind."

Arthur's green gaze rolls back to Lancelot, and he sits, waiting.

"Arthur," Lancelot sighs at last, "I wish I had the words to tell you what you need to hear. You and I both know you are the one with the gilded tongue."

Arthur shakes his head, then stops, swearing he can feel a rattling where his logic center should be. "You don't need to say anything."

Lancelot dismounts suddenly, and looks up at Arthur expectedly.

"Get down," he commands, and for once, the captain obeys the lieutenant.

The horses nuzzle each other, and stand together in the softly falling snow as their riders square off.

Lancelot strides away, and as Arthur's gaze is distracted by the falling whiteness, he turns, drawing one of his blades and rushes at Arthur.

Arthur gapes in surprise, then pulls Excalibur off the side of his horse and raises it just in time for the metallic clang that reverberates through the woods when the two swords meet.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Arthur hisses, and parries another blow.

"Fight me, damn it," Lancelot merely answers, and spins under Arthur's arm, coming around his back and sinking an elbow between Arthur's shoulder blades. The other man trips, then turns around, a growl on his lips and thunder in his eyes.

A furious volley of hits and blocks follows, the only witnesses the animals in the forest and the two amused horses, who nicker to each other at the strange behavior of their owners.

Arthur is sweating and swearing, and Lancelot's face stings from the small cut he has received from Excalibur's blade when he wasn't looking.

"Son of a bitch!" comes guttering out of Arthur's throat. He drops the big sword and launches himself at the other man, knocking him over, the twin blades flying over their heads to land in the soft earth.

They lay panting, Arthur's sweat dropping onto Lancelot's face, one of the older man's hands trapped under Lancelot's mail covered shoulder.

Their eyes lock, and the woods seem to still as Arthur's world shrinks to comprise of only the hot body under his, and the breathy, shivery touch he feels inside when the other's soul brushes against his, reminding it that _he is not alone_. He never will be, as long as the other man is alive.

The sweat falling onto Lancelot's red face is joined by tears, and a gasping, rending sound forces it's way out of Arthur's lungs as his body collapses onto the knight's, metal cuirass jarring Lancelot's own armor.

Lancelot swears, then sits up, dragging Arthur's heaving body with him. He's shivering himself, horrified and crushed by his commander's pain.

His back rams against a fallen tree, and he wraps his arms around Arthur, murmuring soft, nonsensical Sarmatian words to him as the other man shakes and tears at Lancelot's back.

Arthur doesn't know where he is or what's going on; he only knows that the arms holding his torso up are ones that seem familiar and warm. The snow makes a stark contrast against the red tinge that coats his gaze, and he knows somewhere in the recesses of his ragged mind that he shouldn't be acting like this. He is a man, for Christ's sake. He is a leader and a warrior.

And by God, does he hurt.

He stops sobbing at last, and lets his forehead fall against the chill of Lancelot's breastplate. The icy metal feels soothing against his fevered brow.

He takes a deep breath, and pulls one of his frozen hands around to his front, staring confusedly at the blood that decorates his fingertips.

His watery gaze rises to Lancelot's, and he opens his mouth. "I-"

"If you dare say you're sorry, I will cleave your head from your shoulders now and save the Saxons the trouble," the knight says, his voice cracking only once.

Arthur shuts his lips.

He has no words, and his body relaxes of it's own accord gradually as his panic and grief melt to hide in a small part of himself that he rarely allows anyone to see.

He rests his head on Lancelot's mail clad shoulder, and breathes the man in, eyes shut, recalling simpler times when they could scream at each other for hours, then claim each other's body and soul moments later.

Lancelot trembles as he just holds Arthur, being oh so careful not to reveal any of his own emotions, but his jaw cracks once with the force of his clamped teeth.

Arthur's stallion stamps its feet, and whinnies. Lancelot curses under his breath, then moves slightly, shifting Arthur so the other man is sitting up fully, their faces inches apart.

"Can you do this?" he asks simply.

_I can't I can't do this! I have nothing to believe in anymore. Not even your love, my friend._

"Yes," is all Arthur says.

Lancelot makes to stand, and Arthur is struck suddenly with the thought that he won't have his knight by his side much longer.

His hand shoots out, grabbing Lancelot by the arm, and pulls him back down to his knees so they are level again.

Their lips are abruptly sealed together, Arthur's eyes open, Lancelot's slipping closed as he sighs into the older man's mouth.

There is nothing tender about it. Desperation, loneliness, and pure need are the only feelings Arthur is aware of.

In the distance, a muffled thumping echoes through the high hills, and Arthur rips his mouth away from Lancelot's, who almost falls forward with the unexpected loss of balance.

Arthur leaps to his feet, and races for his horse, grabbing up Excalibur and Lancelot's two blades, which he tosses one by one to the other man as the dark haired knight follows him just as swiftly.

They mount, and kick their animals into a fast canter, catching the line of people in mere moments.

Arthur gallops past the trundling wagon that holds Guinevere and the child, and her eyes follow as he then Lancelot rush past.

He yanks his horse to a stop, and looks at Tristan.

"We're almost there," the enigmatic scout says, and Arthur nods, then digs a foot into his mount's flank.

The surprised horse snorts, then quickly takes off, following Tristan's horse toward the frozen lake, and hopefully, safety.

Lancelot continues to ride slower, leading the straggling herd of people in the direction Arthur and Tristan have gone.

Gawain rides silently next to him, looking at Lancelot only once or twice, taking in Lancelot's flushed face, nicked cheek, and swollen and bruised lips.

They keep going, the path widening the closer they get.

The blond knight catches Lancelot's eyes at last, who cocks one eyebrow as the lake comes into view. Arthur and Tristan have dismounted and are testing the strength of the frozen water.

"How is he?" Gawain says quietly.

Lancelot looks at Gawain, and Gawain nods.

"Get these people out of the carts!" Arthur yells, and the knights move to obey. Lancelot stays mounted for a moment longer, speaking to himself.

" 'No lofty peak, nor fortress bold, could match our captain's eye'," he quotes softly, the line from a story that was ancient when his grandfather was in clouts coming to mind.

Only he knows the bravado is an act, and can only wonder how long it will be 'til Arthur breaks completely.

He hopes he'll be there to see it, because the other man will need him.

The sound of drums comes to Arthur's ears again as he leads his knights and the refugees across the lake.

He doesn't look at Lancelot, but he can feel the other man behind him.

The snow has stopped finally, but the ice in Arthur's veins remains.

_Except in your dreams._

end.


End file.
